


Heavy of Heart, Weary of Soul

by rippedoutgrace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint is not handling things well, Coulson isn't alive, F/M, Gen, c/c is off-screen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 18:03:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rippedoutgrace/pseuds/rippedoutgrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of <i>The Avengers</i>, Clint Barton disappears. Natasha is determined to bring him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy of Heart, Weary of Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is set post-Avengers and through CA:TWS. Basically my take on [ this post](http://loveholic198.tumblr.com/post/92799037774/clintasha-au-after-the-fall-of-s-h-i-e-l-d) and the question everyone wants the answer to: where the hell has Clint Barton been? 
> 
> I fully expect to be jossed in May, but until then, this is my version of the story. And maybe I'll add to it after AOU, who knows! 
> 
> Please note that my Clint/Natasha do not have a sexual relationship, but they do share an intimate bond. And to be clear, the Clint/Coulson relationship is both past tense (as Coulson isn't alive) and off-screen. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, as usual. Title from [ this incredibly gorgeous song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ey2UdOqiTw8), which you should definitely listen to while reading this.

 

 

Not that Natasha would ever admit it, but she actually didn’t immediately notice when Clint disappeared.

 

Ever since she’s known him, he takes – not that he would ever call it a break –some _time_. Time to readjust, decompress, whatever. She never asked. She has her own post-mission routines and she’d prefer to be alone during them, too. But he always showed up again. Always.

 

She wants to say that her mind is just elsewhere. Occupied. Things are chaotic, hectic, New York is still in shambles. Debriefings, physical exams, mental exams, more exams than Natasha cares to ever participate in again. Coulson…

 

And then Tony Stark calls her to invite her to live in his Stark Tower monstrosity, though _ask_ is a bit of a generous term. More like arrogantly assume she’d say yes and he was just giving her the details. It’s not until he says, “And see if you can find Barton and get him in on this” that she realizes it’s been nearly two weeks since she’s spoken to Clint.

 

When was the last time she’d even seen him? He drove them together to watch Thor haul Loki back to Asgard, smirking at her quiet running commentary, but strangely subdued on the way back to S.H.I.E.L.D. “I’ll see you later, okay Tasha?” he mumbled as he parked the car in the underground garage and tossed her the keys. She’d seen him later knocking on Fury’s office door and close it firmly behind him, shoulders slumped until Fury barked a “come in” and he straightened to his full, but admittedly not very impressive, height and enter with a quiet acknowledging “Sir.”

 

And… that’s it. That was the last time Natasha had seen him, talked to him, anything. If she had been the type prone to panicking, this would definitely be the time for it.

 

No. No, better to wait, she thinks.

 

He just needs time.

 

***

She does move into the Tower, though it’s more out of some morbid curiosity of how spectacularly bad it could all go, having such… _strong_ personalities under one roof, rather than because she agrees with Fury and the importance of team-building. Even less so than because she's humoring Stark. He doesn’t need to be humored anyway. Her _apartment_ , and really it is a fully equipped apartment, not a room, is muted and tastefully (thankfully) lacking in anything even close to Stark’s taste.

 

He waves her in. “I figured you be more interested in decorating it yourself anyway. Or, okay, Pepper figured you’d want to do it yourself, but I agreed.”

 

She spends the afternoon with a cup of tea in hand while she stashes weapons. She has to give it to Stark – there are some surprisingly well-thought out hiding places. Clint will love this, she thinks with a small private smile as she coils flat a garroting wire behind the toaster. And immediately stops when she realizes.

 

It’s unprofessional for Natasha to be caught off-guard by anything but as she slips out of her room, she can’t silence her mind childishly prompting her to check Clint’s floor anyway. “JARVIS, if you please,” she gestures at the door in front of her. It slides open silently.

 

It’s dark, deathly still inside. She steps through and the door _snicks_ shut behind her. It smells of fresh paint and she tries not to breathe too deeply as she moves through the living room, past the kitchen, to the entirely empty bedroom. Stupid, she scolds herself. Of course he’s not here.

 

Natasha just isn’t sure where he is.

 

Still, she keeps quiet about it, only turning it over in her mind when she’s absolutely sure she’s alone, can think in peace. For a heart-stopping moment, she fears that he’s imprisoned somewhere in the bowels of S.H.I.E.L.D. Not everyone understands what happened to him wasn’t his fault and that nearly single-handedly destroying the helicarrier wasn’t _him_ , it was Loki.

 

Surely Fury wouldn’t – wouldn’t allow that. Surely.

 

Tony insists that she come for dinner at least once a week and though she puts up a respectable fight about it, she doesn’t mind so much and usually shows up more often than that. Especially now that Steve has moved in as well. She likes Steve. Or at least respects him. She doesn’t _like_ people (except Clint, her busy brain reminds her). And Steve rises to Tony’s snark far more often than Natasha does, so he’s automatically far more entertaining in Tony’s mind.

 

A week later, Steve approaches her. “Agent Romanoff,” he begins, clearing his throat loudly so as not to startle her. She bites back a smile before she turns around. As if she didn’t know he was there.

 

“Natasha is fine, you know.”

 

“Of course. Natasha,” he says slowly, testing it out. “Um, I was wondering if perhaps you’d be willing to help me with something?”

 

She spreads her hands in front of her, encouraging him to go on, already curious as to what Captain America would want from her.

 

“I’d like to – well, I was hoping that you could help me with – “

 

“Yes?” she prompts, a little amused.

 

“Fighting.”

 

“Fighting,” she repeats. How interesting.

 

It becomes a standing date between them. Three days a week find them sparring in the gym. Natasha doesn’t hold back, not at all concerned with actually hurting Steve, but she tries to be patient as she points out openings and uncovered spots as they trade flurries of hits and kicks.

 

He’s not bad, really. The best part, Natasha thinks, is that he’s quite adaptable and eager to learn. He doesn’t even complain when she takes him through a few rigorous gymnastic routines, pushing him into being more flexible than he thought possible. It makes her miss Clint fiercely. His stupid, reckless acrobatics and how graceful he’d appear flipping himself into the air. Not that she’d ever tell him that.

 

No one else mentions Clint until Bruce shows up at the Tower without warning. Tony, of course, is delighted and drags Bruce around through his personal lab and Stark Industries’ R&D floors before even taking the man to his own room. Natasha already scoped out everyone’s rooms and nearly all of the floors, except those still under construction, and knows Tony included a meditation room for Bruce. Honestly, he’s not a big of a thoughtless asshole as he pretends to be, but Natasha can understand the appeal of hiding behind a façade. It is, after all, how she makes a living.

 

Bruce, for whatever reason, is happy to cook dinner for them all that night and it’s not until they’ve sat down to eat that Bruce motions to the empty place setting. “Is Clint not hungry? I made plenty.”

 

Everyone's eyes swivel to the Barton-less chair and Natasha pointedly ignores them, delicately taking a bite of the curried chicken on her plate. Delicious.

 

“Wait, he’s still not here?” Tony demands at the same time Steve turns wide eyes to Natasha, “I thought – “

 

Deep breaths, she tells herself. She lets her fork clatter to her plate and the men stop talking immediately. “No, he’s not here.”

 

“Not here in the Tower at the moment,” Bruce says slowly. “Or not here at all?”

 

“At all.” She tries to be firm. Like she knows exactly what’s going on. Like she knows exactly where her partner is.

 

Like she isn’t worried out of her mind.

 

Tony presumably doesn’t like this answer as he scowls deeply and snaps orders to JARVIS to get Fury on the phone right now.

 

“Sir, Directory Fury does not wish to be disturbed.”

 

“Tell him this important,” Stark demands, pushing back from the table to stand and pacing along the length of the room.

 

Natasha continues eating. No sense in letting the food go cold. Her ears are straining though, waiting for the second Fury finally relents and gets on the phone.

 

“Stark,” the disembodied voice snaps. “As the world does not actually revolve around you, there are other things that need my attention – “

 

“Where’s Barton?” Tony interrupts smoothly. He’s stopped pacing and he’s staring somewhere over Bruce’s left shoulder as he speaks. Natasha watches the tiny twitch in his jaw.

 

“Agent Barton is fine.”

 

Even Natasha stills at that. She resumes eating instantly but knows Steve caught her pause.

 

Tony frowns. “That’s not what I asked you. I said, _where_ –“

 

“I heard you the first time,” Fury sighs. Natasha can picture him rubbing at the vein that throbs in his temple every time he has to deal with Stark. “His current location is classified and if you’ll excuse me, Stark.”

 

“No, no I will not. Fury? Fury!”

 

“Sir, it appears the Director has hung up.”

 

“No shit,” Tony grumbles. “Try him again.”

 

“Sir, Director Fury is refusing your calls.”

 

Steve leans over the table to catch Natasha’s eye. “There’s no way he’d be cleared for missions right now. Right?”

 

As the answer is obvious, she doesn’t feel the need to respond. She leaves them at the table without a word and tells JARVIS she doesn’t wish to be disturbed.

 

“Of course, Agent Romanoff.”

 

She sleeps that night only because she forces herself to close her eyes and tells herself she will not get up until morning.

 

She’s standing in front of Fury’s desk at 7:30 the next morning. “Where is he?”

 

“Natasha,” Fury sighs. He leans back in his chair and rubs a hand over his face. She’s quiet, watching him. Waiting to see if he’ll lie to her. He shakes his head and she crosses her arms over her chest.

 

“Don’t do this to me.”

 

“He wanted some time and I gave it to him. That’s all.”

 

Frowning, she fixes a glare on him. “That’s not all.” It can’t be all. She sits in one of the chairs in front of his desk, refusing to budge.

 

“Secure office,” Fury barks out. A computerized voice assures them that the office is now secure and Fury, for a moment, actually looks weary. “Romanoff, look, you know what he did and before you say anything,” he puts a hand up, “I know and you know it wasn’t his fault. I was at that research facility when – when it happened.” He clears his throat and sits back.

 

Natasha waits. This isn’t everything.

 

When it’s apparent she’s not going to be satisfied, Fury rolls his eye. “You know as well as I do that Barton can and will get out of any psychological exam. He knows every answer before they ask the question and I won’t put him in a prison.”

 

“He doesn’t belong in one anyway. He helped save the world right alongside the rest of us,” Natasha adds unnecessarily. But she felt it needed to be said, just in case.

 

Fury nods. “Despite everything Barton did in New York, the World Security Council still wants to get their hands on him. Hang it on him, especially now that Loki is off-world.”

 

Natasha doesn’t do anything so obvious as flinch but it’s a near thing. “Hang it on him,” she repeats flatly. “I hope you told them to go to hell.”

 

“I told them Loki would face Asgardian justice and that Agent Barton was off the table.”

 

She nods slowly. “So then, where is he?” She’s getting tired of this game, but unfortunately, she suspects there’s no one else that knows where Clint is. She can play nice when she needs to, but she can feel the itching in her fingers to _do_ something. Preferably violent.

 

Fury says nothing as he opens a desk drawer, and Natasha can hear him shift aside the .40 mm he keeps in it, as he pulls out a piece of paper and a pen.

 

Natasha leaves two minutes later clutching the paper with latitude and longitude coordinates written on it. Out of some strange compulsion to be considerate of her fellow Avengers, she tells JARVIS to please let the other knows that she’ll be gone for an undetermined amount of time if they should ask, before she’s driving back to S.H.I.E.L.D., go-bag in hand.

 

JARVIS assured her that he would pass along the message because as he said, “Agent Romanoff, your presence will be missed very soon. Have a safe trip.”

 

***

“What do you mean ‘she’s no longer on the premises’ JARVIS?”

 

If JARVIS could feel exasperated, he would be right now. “Agent Romanoff left the Tower at 9:17 this morning and wished me to inform you upon request that she is not here. As I said a moment ago, sir.”

 

Steve murmurs to no one in particular, “She’s going to find him.”

 

Tony blows out a breath and heads for the elevator. Bruce catches it as the doors begin to close and steps inside. He’s quiet as the elevators hurtle towards Tony’s lab.

 

“What’s the deal with them, anyway?”

 

Bruce shrugs. “Natasha isn’t exactly an open book. And all I know about Barton is that he’s a hell of a shot.”

 

“How can that possibly be all you know?” Tony sounds incredulous.

 

“How can that – I’m sorry, have you met either of them?”

 

“Point,” Tony mumbles. “I just thought maybe she’s said something to you.”

 

The elevator doors slide open and Bruce trails after Tony, dodging a rolling robot rushing towards them. Tony pets it absentmindedly. “What do you mean you thought she would say something to me?”

 

“I thought she brought you all the way from India. You’re telling me you didn’t talk the entire time?”

 

“Wasn’t really in the mood for talking at the time,” Bruce mutters and rolls his eyes when Tony just blinks owlishly at him. “No, Agent Romanoff did not tell me anything that wasn’t about the immediate problem – the Tesseract.”

 

Tony nods and Bruce waits patiently. He’s good at that. He is surprised, however, when Tony simply asks, “Would you mind taking a look at this? I could use a fresh pair of eyes.”

 

***

 

She’s been walking through the woods for some time now, thankful at least that it’s not hot. The trees are dense and keep the ground cool and soft as she presses on, feeling a frisson of concern that she might actually have to make a camp out here if she doesn’t find it before dark.

 

Not that she can’t, of course. She is the Black Widow. She’d just…rather not.

 

Almost before she realizes it, the woods thin and then clear to open onto a flat, circular stretch of land with a small cabin sitting squarely in the center of it. The rhythmic _thump-pause-thump_ she’d been hearing grow steadily louder for the last few minutes makes more sense now.

 

Clint stands bare-chested facing away from her, mechanically picking up a piece of wood, which he balances on the tree stump and then fluidly, powerfully swings an axe down with brutal force to split the wood in half. She watches for a moment, leaning against a tree and keeps her breathing quiet. Not for the first time does she notice how beautiful Clint is.

 

Her opinion does not change when he leans down as if to pick up another cord of wood and in a half second has a gun out, cocked, and pointed at her. It doesn’t waver and his exposed body gleams with the sweat running down his defined chest and stomach.

 

She lifts an unimpressed eyebrow and pushes off the tree with her shoulder. “You’re twitchy.”

 

The gun isn’t aimed her head anymore but she doesn’t fail to notice that it’s still gripped in Clint’s hand. He says nothing. It’s okay, she can wait him out, she thinks. Ten seconds later, the gun slips into Clint’s ankle holster and he turns to lift the axe. _Crack!_ the wood splits and he lodges the axe into the stump. She doesn’t offer to help as he collects the pieces and moves up to the small cabin, watching as he deposits most of it into an already impressive pile but keeps two pieces. The door opens and she’s still standing by the tree. She knows – she’s not supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be 2,000 miles away in New York right now, not in the backwoods of Oregon.

 

“Come on,” he calls to her and disappears inside. She doesn’t think twice as she strides up to the cabin and closes the door behind her.

 

***

 

Her eyes struggle to adjust for a moment. It’s dark but as her eyes flick about the room, she can tell it’s sparsely furnished and not much else. Clint’s bow and quiver lie on top of the two-person table and she can see the glint of a row of knives on the laughably tiny counter space.

 

“Cozy.”

 

It’s not a tense silence, but it’s silence nonetheless. Natasha’s determined to wait him out. Clint’s fidgety – twirling a small knife between his fingers and looking just about everywhere but her. When he finally meets her eye, he sighs. “Hi.”

 

“Hi, yourself.”

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

It wasn’t what she was expecting – but maybe she just didn’t know what to expect. This _person_ , this quiet, somber man is not Clint. Not the Clint she knows. She’s good at going with the situation though, so that, she decides, will be the game plan. She tosses her bag to the ground and scoots it towards the ratty sofa with her foot before toeing out of her boots and dropping them. Gently nudges the quiver aside before sitting in one of the rickety chairs. “Sure,” she says. “I could eat.”

 

And that’s what they do.

 

Clint insists that she take the lone bed and that he’ll take the couch. It throws her for a moment. She wouldn’t think twice about sharing the bed with him but his quiet but firm “good night, Tasha” settles it and she watches him curl up on the couch with a blanket. His breathing goes deep and even within minutes but she isn’t fooled for a second. She knows he’s still hyper-aware of her presence and listening carefully for any sign of anything.

 

“Good night, птичка,” she murmurs. _Little bird_. She pretends not to notice the slight hitch in his breath at the familiar endearment.

 

Despite the uneasiness she can’t seem to shake, she manages to catch a few hours of sleep, but not before poking around the bedroom. She checks everywhere, under the bed, in the miniscule closet, the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. It’s almost entirely devoid of anything personal. Almost. A pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. issued sweats and a few t-shirts are folded neatly in the small chest of drawers. A single toothbrush in the bathroom. A bottle of aspirin rattling around the nightstand. And…that’s it. Nothing to indicate that Clint has been living here for over a month. That is, if he’s actually been here that entire time.

 

Early the next morning, Clint silently hands her a cup of coffee when she gets to the kitchen and he jerks his head towards the front door. She grips the coffee between her hands, relishing the heat warming her palms and fingers, as they step outside into the morning-cool air. The sun is just beginning to rise and the sky is lovely, pink and soft, and she can hear mourning doves cooing somewhere close by.

 

“Oh,” she says softly, surprised. “You certainly don’t get this in New York.” Natasha can’t remember the last time anything was so peaceful.

 

Clint gives her a strange look. “No, I guess not.”

 

She freezes for a second, wondering if she shouldn’t have mentioned New York. She meant it as a city but who knows what things Clint would connect to it. The battle, Coulson, Loki… She takes a sip of coffee to buy herself a moment. She shouldn’t be as surprised as she is that’s it’s exactly how she likes it. Of course he would remember that, she chides herself. Just as she knows things about him.

 

“The beard is a good look. Different,” she smiles, attempting to change tracks. She makes her movements slow and easy as she reaches a hand to stroke his face, allowing him plenty of time to move if he wanted. He stays completely still and lets his eyes drift close as her fingers trail across his cheek, down his jaw to his chin. The bristly hairs itch against the pads of her fingers and she sweeps her thumb gently across his cheekbone before stepping back again.

 

He breathes deeply and she mirrors him, getting a lungful of pine and the dregs of her coffee. When he holds an arm out slightly, she takes it for the invitation it is and slides next to him, pressing closer and breathing him in. She’d know his scent anywhere. Clint rests his cheek on the top of her head, only comfortably doing so because she's leaning into him, and she feels his lips brush across her scalp. “Missed you, Tasha.”

 

They don’t _do_ anything all day – Natasha idly muses that this is as close to a vacation as she’ll ever get – but something is just off. Not right.

 

He’s different. And for the first time in years, since she and he became partners, she has no idea what to do.

 

***

 

“Where do you think they are? It’s been days,” Steve quietly asks Bruce without looking up from his scrambled eggs. He pushes them around the pan with the spatula and says nothing while he waits for Bruce to put the newspaper down.

 

Bruce shrugs, even though Steve’s back is to him. “Honestly? They could be anywhere.”

 

Tony strolls in as Bruce finishes and raises his eyebrows at them. “Still no word? JARVIS, has Romanoff checked in at all?”

 

“No, sir. I cannot find any reports in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s databases either.” JARVIS pauses, and it catches Tony’s attention. “Sir? You have a call from Director Fury.”

 

Fury snaps over the line, “Stark, you think I can’t tell when you go poking around in my systems. I can tell.”

 

“Just curious as to the current whereabouts of our fellow teammates,” Stark responds cheerfully, dodging Steve’s shove as he sticks a fork into Steve’s plate and chews a bite of eggs. “Needs more salt, Cap.”

 

“They aren’t _for_ you,” Steve grumbles.

 

“Stark!”

 

“Director.”

 

Bruce can hear how weary Fury sounds but Tony pays no mind in his perpetual quest to annoy the Director. “Well, are they even in this hemisphere?”

 

“Good-bye, Stark.”

 

The only sound is Bruce flipping the pages of the paper until Steve fixes Tony with a stern look. “I think they want their privacy right now, and we should let them.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

 

Bruce just sighs and turns to the classifieds.

 

***

 

“I feel like we’re in that movie,” Natasha says, letting her fingers lazily trail through the water.

 

“What, _The Notebook_?” Clint sounds amused. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m not gonna ravish you when we get back to the cabin. And I don’t think there are a lot of swans around here.”

 

“Ducks.”

 

“Oh. Well, those are around.”

 

Clint insisted they go fishing that morning and made sure she was bundled her up in sweaters and a pair of his old boots before rowing them out to the middle of the lake. She made so much noise clomping through the woods on the way down to the shore in the too-big boots, despite her best efforts to remain quiet and Clint, well, he didn’t outright laugh at her like he normally would have, but there was a small smile. She counted it success and let her feet flop a little more even though she could feel her soul cringe at how she was giving away their position. The first time she’d mentioned it though, Clint shut down hard. “There’s no one here, Natasha,” he said flatly. And that was the end of it.  

 

The excursion was a success though. Clint caught twice as many fish as Natasha and she grumbled somewhat good-naturedly about it until he shrugged casually. “I’ve had some practice, I guess.”

 

She never knows what to do with these small acknowledgements. These nods to the fact that yes, they are in fact a very long way from where they should be, both physically and in regards to their own relationship. Emotionally, with the definite exception of the first few months she was at S.H.I.E.L.D., he’s more closed off than ever. He skillfully avoids her attempts to steer conversation towards the real reasons he left, suggesting fishing and hiking and adjusting her grip on the axe when he asks if she wants to chop some wood ("it's not a baseball bat, Tasha"). But she admits she isn’t using her training on him – getting into his brain, under his skin, twisting and turning and prying until secrets come tumbling out – she’s just. Trying to be a friend.

 

It’s harder than she would like it to be.

 

***

 

The lonely clock on the wall ticks just after two in the morning when Natasha rolls out of bed, desperately thirsty and unable to satisfy herself with the trickling water in the bathroom sink. She pads barefoot into the main room silent as a prowling cat, intent on not waking Clint. What she doesn’t expect is for him to be sitting upright on the couch watching her.

 

They stare at each other for some time and Natasha forgets all about her need for a glass of water. She breaks the silence. “You’re not sleeping, are you?”

 

“Can’t.” He doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t ask him to.

 

She does, however, take him by the hand and lead him into the bedroom. Lets him curl into the warm space she just abandoned and folds the covers over him. Slips in behind him and presses herself as tightly as she can against his larger frame.

 

Clint doesn’t cry or shake on his exhaling breaths or really much of anything to show outwardly that he’s a goddamn wreck, but he does weave his fingers between hers and pulls their joined hands across his body. She falls asleep as the windows go from pitch black to a dark gray. She can tell he doesn’t sleep at all.

 

It’s fully morning before she wakes again and Clint is nowhere to be seen. The bed is cold and she wonders a little that she didn’t hear him get up. He’s not a threat, her mind doesn’t see him as one and she knows that despite everything, she always feels at peace sleeping next to him.

 

 

That peace hasn’t extended to Clint. He’s standing at the kitchen sink, gripping the edges and staring blankly outside the small window above it. Coffee isn’t being made, neither is breakfast, and Natasha wonders what he’s been doing all this time.

 

“Clint,” she starts softly, waiting to see if he’d hear her. If he’d listen. “птичка, whose place is this?”

 

“It’s mine.” From where’s she’s standing to the side, she can see the troubled frown starting to crawl across his forehead.

 

She shakes her head at him. “No, it’s not. You don’t own a cabin.”

 

He’s quiet and she’s just shifting her weight to step closer when he finally speaks again. She stays where she is. “It was Coulson’s. Personal safe house… We – we were here once.”

 

It doesn’t ring any bells for her, but then again, she went on solo missions frequently. It would make sense that Coulson and Clint did the same at times. But this is not something she knew. They never spoke of a cabin in the woods, or missions near Portland. Stupid, she scolds herself. It’s not as if she tells Clint the intimate details of her every mission.

 

“He always said to me, you know, whenever we were down, outnumbered, bleeding like crazy and full of bullet holes, ‘We’ll always have Portland’. I didn’t get it. When we were here, it was three days of total quiet. Real calm, you know? You ever seen calm like this, Tasha?”

 

She’s afraid to break the spell – whatever it is that finally got him to open up. She wants to tell him that it’s a reference, “We’ll always have Paris”, and it’s an incredible, sudden, fierce ache in her chest. Oh, Clint…, she thinks, mourns, wants to wrap him in her arms. Berate Coulson for dying, even though she wouldn’t have done differently than what he did given the chance, and force Clint to open his eyes, to see how much he meant to the man. She doesn’t though, not yet. Maybe not ever.

 

Clint trails off, the tense line of his shoulders a flashing warning sign that he’s done talking. That he probably never meant to say so much.

 

Natasha takes pity and changes the subject. “Breakfast?” A smile for him when he nods briskly, pushes himself off the counter, starts hunting through the refrigerator for food.

 

If she lets her touches linger a little longer when she brushes a hand over his hair or sits a little closer to him on the couch or on the steps of the front porch, neither of them acknowledges it. She keeps doing it anyway.

 

***

 

In Fury’s office, Steve stands at parade rest while Tony buzzes here and there picking up stuff and putting it down. Steve is about ninety-nine percent sure Fury is about to shoot Stark in the knee, if the twitching eye is any indication. Bruce sits quietly in one of the chairs in front of Fury’s behemoth of a desk. Steve can tell he’s exhausted and about two seconds from falling asleep right there. He’s seen the Bruce-to-Hulk-to-Bruce transition before, but he forgets how much of a toll it takes on the doctor. He can’t understand how Stark isn’t falling over himself either. It was a rough day.

 

Since neither of his present teammates seems to be paying any attention to why they were called in, Steve sighs and steps up. “Director, is there a reason you wanted us to do this? Agents Romanoff and Barton are still in the wind and has anyone even heard from Thor?” No one answers him and he takes it as a no. Well, at least with Thor it isn’t surprising. It’s not like they have cell phones on Asgard.

 

But with Clint and Natasha, (and presumably _they_ have some way of communicating) he’d be lying if today wasn’t difficult with them missing. When they got the call that lower Manhattan was being overrun with hoards of mutated giant lizards the size of a family car, Steve didn’t hesitate. He gathered up Stark and Bruce and they went to work. Hulk happily smashed his way through the vast majority of the lizards and Stark pulled double-duty as his eyes in the sky and taking care of the ones that escaped off the ground.

 

Steve’s only thankful there weren’t more of the monsters on the streets. It was hard enough without Natasha covering his back or Clint up high calling out patterns and strays. He needs his team together and Fury is infuriatingly not giving him anything to go on here.

 

“Captain, you all did a fine job today and this is what we call a success, alright? Take your team home and get some rest,” Fury says, not unkindly but his patience is clearly wearing thin. He waves at the door. “Please, go home. And take Stark with you, for the love of God.”

 

Steve knows a dismissal when he hears one.

 

When they get back to the Tower, Colonel Rhodes has made himself at home, watching a baseball game on the monstrous flat-screen TV in the main living room. He mutes it as soon as he sees them get off the elevator and pats Tony on the back when he walks by. “Hey, Tony.” Tony grunts at him as he pours himself and Rhodes a finger of whisky each. After he’s taken a sip he acknowledges him with a mock-serious face.

 

“Rhodey. Something wrong with your TV?”

 

Rhodey ignores him but accepts the tumbler. “Captain, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

 

“Colonel Rhodes, good to meet you,” Steve returns, holds out a hand and he’s immensely relieved that Rhodes is the consummate professional he’s reputed to be, firmly shaking his hand and leaving it at that. No questions or comments or thinly veiled references to his sudden appearance in the twenty-first century. Unlike some people he lives with.

 

Bruce, Steve realizes, never got off the elevator with them and he excuses himself quickly, leaving the two of them to carry on. He can hear Tony’s laugh ricochet through the room as he leaves. “Rhodey, Rhodey, I did not _give_ you one of the suits. If you remember, I think you _took_ it. Yes, you did, why are you shaking your head?”

 

For some reason, their easy banter makes him miss Bucky so much it nearly steals his breath. It’s one thing he has to get used to, he supposes. The loneliness, the quiet of his room pressing in on him, the tells of established friendship among his teammates that he doesn’t have. Tony and Rhodes. Natasha and Clint.

 

Maybe he should find out what Dr. Banner does all day.

 

“JARVIS?”

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

“What’s Dr. Banner doing right now?”

 

“The doctor is asleep at the moment, Captain. Shall I tell him – “

 

Steve shakes his head, even though it makes him feel strange. He just assumes JARVIS is ‘looking’ at him when he does it. “No, that’s fine, JARVIS. He needs the rest.”

 

“Of course, Captain.”

 

Steve’s apartment is too dark and quiet. He slips on a pair of sweats and heads to the gym. Knocking around some punching bags should help. Or so he hopes.

 

***

 

Nearly a week’s gone by and Natasha’s concerned. Clint – he’s – he just doesn’t show any interest in actually ever going back. None.

 

She has no idea what to do with that realization. She’s never kidded herself, she knows that the life she lives is not conducive to retirement plans and families, but somewhere along the way, Barton became her family. He became her friend. They make a good team, fluid and intuitive, and she just wants it again. She wants him there by her side, fighting and clawing their way through this life that hasn’t been especially kind to either of them.

 

He curls up next to her in bed every night and holds her hand under the blankets or buries his face in her hair. Every morning he’s up before she is and Natasha cannot imagine he’s actually getting any sleep. They spend the evenings on the lumpy, worn couch that Natasha thinks is roughly the same age as she is. Coulson apparently kept a small collection of books stacked against the wall and she tucks her toes under Clint’s thighs as he stares at the fire and she half reads, half watches him. She doesn’t know how much longer she can wait.

 

He catches her staring one night and doesn’t seem surprised. He lets his head fall against the back of the couch and exhales heavily. “I’m so tired, Tasha. Just, really tired.”

 

She nods. She understands.

 

They’re quiet until they crawl into bed and he slips his arm around her waist. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

 

Who he’s really apologizing to, she doesn’t know.

 

***

“Come back,” she pleads. “Come back with me.” She will leave him if she must, but she doesn’t want to. She wants him, she wants things to go back to the way they were, and it’s all so unprofessional of her but this isn’t work, her job. This isn’t Black Widow and Hawkeye. This is Natasha and Clint. “Clint, please.”

 

She doesn’t beg for anyone. She’s Natasha Romanoff. She’s killed more men than she can remember even if she wanted to.

 

Natasha Romanoff also misses her friend.

 

***

“What then? Become a back-woods dwelling hermit? Avoid everyone and everything forever? You’re a fucking _hero_ , Clint. Maybe it’s time you start acting like it.”

 

That attempt didn’t go so well. Not that Natasha expected it would, but she’s running out of options. Soon she’s just going to tie him up in the middle of the night and bodily roll him to the nearest airstrip.

 

She anticipates that one going _spectacularly_.

 

Not. 

 

***

Eventually Clint takes the ancient Jeep that’s been parked behind the cabin to the nearest town for a food run. She waves him off when he asks if she wants to come with him, holding up a novel as an excuse. If he notices that it’s not even the same novel she’s been reading, he doesn’t point it out. Either way, he tells her he’ll be back in a few hours and she waits until the rumbling engine can’t be heard anymore before pulling out a satellite phone that’s been stashed in her bag.

 

Clint probably knew about the phone thirty minutes after she arrived but she felt like she should hide the fact that she could call Fury if she needed to. Right now she feels like she needs to call.

 

“He’s different,” she says in lieu of a greeting. “I don’t think he wants to come back.”

 

Fury hums thoughtfully over the line. “We expected this.”

 

She keeps quiet but only in attempt to stifle her anger. They expected this? Expected he’d be so indelibly altered that his closest friend wouldn’t be able to talk him out of it? Is that what they expected?

 

A sharp need to defend Clint bubbles up. “He’ll be fine. He’s adaptable.” She almost says he’s been through worse, but has he? She doesn’t believe her own words in any case. Fury doesn’t either, but neither of them says anything.

 

 _This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for_. Those words keep haunting her.

 

They – they’re survivors. They fight and come up swinging so they can breathe, live another day. Part of it’s their own natural tenacity, but she’s not blind to the fact that she is what she is, _the Black Widow_ , because of the Red Room. Because of what they did to her, trained her for, used her for. Just as Clint is Hawkeye because of his training, his mentors, his brother. They are the products of their pasts, and it’s kept them alive as often as it’s tried to destroy them.

 

But neither of them was prepared for those frightening days. Monsters, magic, aliens, mass destruction on a universal scale. Nothing they were trained for.

 

Her thoughts are interrupted by Fury gently sighing into the line. “Natasha, we need you back. I told Barton to take some time and he’ll come back when he’s ready.”

 

“What if he’s never ready?” she murmurs, partly to herself, partly to Fury.

 

“He will be.”

 

***

 

That night, Natasha just begins to drift off when she hears Clint whisper so softly it’s almost intelligible. “Don’t leave me alone, Tasha.”

 

She draws him close, forehead to forehead as she breathes him in. “Never,” she whispers back. “Don’t leave me.”

 

“Never.” His grip on her hip is starting to ache and he lets out a half-sob before crushing his lips to hers. It’s painful and bruising with the force and after a long moment, she softens it to a dry press, comforting more than intimate. He breaks away to bury his face in her hair. “Love you.”

 

“Oh, птичка,” _little bird_ “and I you.”

 

She leaves the next morning, turning to watch Clint’s sober, drawn face in the window above the kitchen sink, before she walks away, heart heavy.

 

***

 

She’s fierce and vicious and merciless as she fights alongside her team. Their greetings about her homecoming were kind but unwanted. She needs to work. She needs to compartmentalize her mind.

 

Right now all she wants to do is destroy the next enemy put in front of her, and that’s exactly what she does.

 

Steve approaches her after it’s over, hands held loosely in front of him, nonthreatening. “Natasha,” he questions softly. “Are you –“

 

“Don’t. I’m fine.” Steve lets it drop as he briskly nods and steps back to let her pass. But she’s not entirely heartless, no matter what the other agents at S.H.I.E.L.D. might think. “I’m fine, Steve,” she says, quieter now. Deliberately keeps any unwanted sharpness from creeping into her tone. She even squeezes his arm as she passes by.

 

He must have spoken to Tony and Bruce already because neither of them mentions Clint to her, even though she knows they (well, Tony) must be dying to know. Natasha appreciates the effort. But what she wants to do now is get back to work.

 

She agrees to every mission, both for the Avengers and for S.H.I.E.L.D., needing to _not_ think. She’s fire, she’s terrifying, she’s violence personified. Sylvia Plath’s words are in her mind – _and I eat men like air_. Natasha is Lady Lazarus and she’s hungry for death.

 

Until one day, her anger burns out like a flame, too hot and too bright to be sustained.

 

***

The nightmares are back with a vengeance since Natasha left. Every night it’s the same. Same nightmare, different faces.

 

Faces he’s seen a hundred times at S.H.I.E.L.D., walking past him, on missions with him, joking about the food quality in the cafeterias. In his dreams, they’re laughing one moment and the next they’re full of arrows. Grotesque, macabre. Bloody. Always so much blood. Shafts quivering with their finals breaths as the arrows protrude from their bellies, their eyes, their mouths. They always ask him in those last seconds, “Why?”

 

He wakes shivering and shaky, dripping in cold sweat every time. Why? He doesn’t know why.

 

Even people he didn’t personally kill, but might as well have.

 

Coulson. “Why, Clint?”

 

Or didn’t kill at all.

 

Natasha. “Why, птичка?”

 

Over and over and over and over again.

 

He can’t breathe.

 

 _You have heart_. The good soldier.

 

He rushes to the bathroom after every dream, breathing still erratic and heart pounding. Are they blue? He has to check, he has to make sure. A flicker, a shadow, a gleam, is it blue? If he never sees that electric blue again, it will be too soon. His chest aches where Loki’s spear touched him, though he knows it never pierced skin.

 

Psychosomatic, the S.H.I.E.L.D. doctor told him when he mentioned it after the battle in New York. He couldn’t stop rubbing it and the doctor palpated his torso, searching for the source. He won’t find it, Clint remembers thinking. It’s not of this world.

 

Monsters, magic, gods.

 

Psychosomatic, he tells his still-gray eyes in the mirror. It’s all in your mind. It’s not real.

 

Except it is, isn’t it? It’s real, it happened. And he had a personal hand in creating it.

 

At least when his stomach rebels at the thought, he’s already standing next to the toilet to heave into.

 

He didn’t tell Natasha, but he thinks Fury might know, that he went to the funerals. Every funeral for every fallen agent. Watched as the flags were folded up and the coffins lowered into the ground. He made sure he went unseen, standing far away enough so that he couldn’t hear the words, but he could still see.

 

He needed to see. He had to see what he had done, what destruction he had wrought. The guilt is crushing.

 

Until one day, he wakes up and realizes he didn’t dream that night. It gives him strength for the next time the dreams come. When they ask him “Why?” he tells them “I’m sorry.” And their broken, bleeding bodies vanish like wisps of smoke in the air.

 

***

She’s in D.C. watching the helicarriers fall from the sky.

 

The hearing on Capitol Hill.

 

When she calls in a favor from Kiev, the voice on the other end of the line tells her, “That’s a dangerous path to seek, Natalia.” She keeps it in mind when she hands the file to Steve.

 

“You might not want to pull on that thread.” She kisses his cheek, wishes him well, this man who has become a friend and ally.

 

She leaves in the dead of night, a bag in each hand – one full of weapons, the other holding her every material possession. Stark’s Tower is an option, maybe, but maybe not. It’s time to lay low, not hide in the most visible building in New York.

 

It’s a safe house she rarely uses, musty-smelling and covered in dust when she opens the door, silent as a tomb when she shuts herself inside.

 

Spending the days reevaluating her life is just as terrible for her mental state as she predicted it would be. But it had to be done. Her covers, her misdeeds, her life were just casualties for the greater good.

 

A creaking floorboard one night has her on highest alert, her Glock 26 leading the way into the kitchen, a knife in her other hand. In an instant, the knife is pressed to the throat of her intruder.

 

His hands are raised in surrender. She recognizes those hands.

 

“I told you I wouldn’t leave you,” he says, turning to face her as she lowers the knife and flicks the safety on the gun.

 

“You’re late,” she replies.

 

“I tried – I tried to be here, to get here,” Clint’s voice is shaky. She presses into him close, wrapping her arms around his chest and kissing the collarbone peeking from under his t-shirt.

 

“Shh, it’s okay,” she whispers. “I know, I know. We’ll figure it out together. Just like we always do.”

 

***

“Cap, watch your six.”

 

The relief is palpable among them all, even in the midst of the battle.

 

“Good to have you back, Hawkeye.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love, love hearing from you, dear readers, so please do drop me a line 
> 
> (And yes, I still maintain that Clint is the cellist from Portland, in case you were wondering.)


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